


Of Bats and Boners

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anthropomorphic, Batjohn - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While chasing a suspect through an abandoned quarry, Sherlock is forced to take shelter from a heavy downpour. He happens upon an unusual creature--in an embarrassing predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bats and Boners

**Author's Note:**

> Haters to the left. It's all been tagged. Don't read it if you have an issue.
> 
> YOU CAN ~~BLAME~~ THANK [OREO](http://oreti.tumblr.com/) FOR THE TITLE.
> 
> This ridiculous fic is for Manna, Deni, Chels, Zoe, Oreo, Doc, Laura, Tea--IT'S JUST FOR ALL YOU BATJOHN LOVERS.
> 
> The story below is 0% edited and 100% silly. 
> 
> CHOOCHOO! ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO CRACKVILLE!

Sherlock was half an hour northwest of Newcastle scouring an abandoned quarry when the rain started. Fifteen minutes later, his torch was useless in the dark torrent. He had no hope of finding either the murder suspect (not that he suspected—he knew) or his rental car. He did manage to find a shallow cave in the side of the quarry walls and ducked into it until the rain lightened. It was maddening to think the murderer was likely very nearby using a similar dugout. He could be ten paces away, and Sherlock would have no way of knowing.

He took out a cigarette, the box kept dry in the inner pocket of his coat, and lit it to keep warm and distracted from his vulnerability to the elements. No sooner had he exhaled the first puff of smoke than there was a small cough.

He dropped the smoke and stamped it out, flicking on the torch and moving it across the back wall of the manmade cave. It would barely accommodate his length if he wished to lay down, though it stretched a good quarter metre above his head. A thorough search saw that there were no nooks or passages large enough for a child, let alone a full-grown man.

With resurfaced annoyance, he lit another cigarette.

He had barely taken the first drag when he heard the cough again. Still small, but most definitely there. And, unless his ears were failing him, emanating from above.

He shone the light up, holding the cigarette between two gloved fingers. He passed over jutted stone and shadows, and at last came to something more organically shaped.

A bat.

 _Plecotus auritus_ by the look of it, though a slightly larger than average specimen.

Sherlock took a pointed drag, and sure enough the half-hidden head gave another cough.

He searched the ground again, locating a large piece of cut stone he knew he had seen and catalogued during his search for humans rather than small flying mammals. He set down the torch, pointing it toward the stone to light his path, and held the cigarette between his lips. It took several shoves that left his shoes with bothersome scuffs, but he managed to position it directly under the pat. He picked up the torch, took a drag, and then mounted his improvised stepladder.

Two coughs.

Sherlock pointed the light directly on the creature. Its wings fluttered and flexed, but resolutely continued to cover the face and body.

Well, most of the body.

His examination led him to the point where the wings began to slant away to the feet and a half-centimetre of pale, naked flesh that disappeared under the black leather.

“What on earth,” Sherlock muttered around the cigarette. He pulled off one glove and gently prodded the exposed flesh. He barely had enough time to catalogue it as definitely skin before a loud squeak caused him to stumble back off his perch and fall onto his rear. He lost his second cigarette to the earth. “Bloody hell!”

“Bloody hell yourself!” a tiny voice shrieked.

Sherlock scrambled for the torch and flashed it back to the bat. He blinked, slow and deliberate, and his eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Impossible,” he breathed.

“I’ll tell you what’s impossible,” the bat squeaked, fluttering down from its upside-down perch and landing on Sherlock’s knee. “You are! Humans, so selfish and inconsiderate. Do you always go around poking every creature you find?”

Sherlock was stunned into silence by several things at that moment. First, the voice: this bat was most certainly talking to him, and as intellectually as any average human might. Second, the face: aside from a bit of a flattish nose, its face was very, very human, down to the tuft of pale fur that covered its neck and matched its short wiry hair. Third, the penis: the odd bit of exposed pale flesh was the bat’s penis, and it was very erect and pointing out and slightly up toward Sherlock, as if joining in its owner’s accusations.

That particularly thought snapped him out of shock and into a fit of giggling.

“Excuse me!” the creature huffed, crossing its winged arms over its little chest.

“Quite,” Sherlock chuckled. He leaned back on his hands and nodded down.

The bat looked, squeaked, and gathered his wings as best he could around his erection. Not very well. “I’m not the one who barged in on someone having- having—”

“A wank?” Sherlock offered.

The creature just glared up at Sherlock, which was rather ineffective.

“You’re quite fascinating.”

“Wh- what?” The little human face went pink.

“Part bat, part human. Quite impossible according to modern science. But I suppose science knows very little compared to what there is to know, and I am rarely one to doubt my own senses when I am sober.”

“I—”

“How smart are you? Obviously you have an adequate grasp of speech. Do you teach language among yourselves, or is it learned from unnoticed observation of humans? Do you have a name?”

“J- John, and please, I’m not—”

“John!” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s incredibly dull. I would have expected something more exotic. You are speaking English, though, so I suppose it’s only natural for your name to be of English origin as well.”

“Would you please shut up!” John shrieked again.

Sherlock winced at the sound. “That’s quite a high frequency. Are you able to utilise sonar like normal bats?”

John groaned. “Do you ever stop questioning?”

“I’m curious. You’re something new, something unexpected. I don’t come across such things very often. Life is usually predictable and repetitious.”

“Well I would appreciate it if you left and came back with your bothersome questions another time, thank you!” John turned around on Sherlock’s knee and flapped haphazardly to the cut stone.

Sherlock noted a spot of discolouration in the left wing. He sat up and leaned forward. “Are you alright? Did I injure you?”

“What?” John looked over his shoulder and then followed Sherlock’s gaze. “No. That’s an old scar.”

“Ah, I see.”

A sudden silence grew between them, and John peered around again. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I said no such thing. Besides, I can hardly see where my feet are in this weather.” He glanced back at the rain, which was coming down as hard, if not harder, than when he had taken shelter. When he looked at John again, he found him increasingly agitated. “What?”

“What, what?”

“You appear distressed.”

John threw up his little clawed hands. “Distressed? Why would I be distressed? I’m only being incessantly pestered by a human who decided to barge in on me while I was sucking myself off and then poked my dick without so much as a hello. No, why would you possibly think I was distressed!” The frequency of his voice rose shrilly at the end of his tirade. He sat back on his rear and hung his head.

“Autofellatio?”

“What?” John snapped, ears perked and twitching.

“You said you were—”

“Never mind what I said! You have missed the point entirely.”

“Interesting. Self-administered sexual stimulation outside of a predetermined mating season for the sole purpose of pleasure. Not many animals do that.”

John snorted derisively, “As far as you know.”

“I’m curious—”

“Of course you are.”

Sherlock ignored the interruption. “In appearance, your penis resembles that of a human, but proportionally it’s closer to a bat’s.”

“Were you staring at it?” John looked over his shoulder utterly aghast.

“No. I observe very quickly, though. My question is, does it behave and react more like a human’s or a bat’s?”

“How would I know?” he grumbled.

“I could conduct an experiment.”

“Wh—” John scrambled to his feet, turning to Sherlock with a red face. “YOU ARE NOT EXPERIMENTING ON MY DICK.”

“So your kind—assuming you are not a unique individual—also attaches sentimentality to sex? Fascinating.”

John crossed his arms, which had the added benefit of partially obscuring his penis. “What’s fascinating is your impropriety.”

Sherlock paused thoughtfully before giving a solemn nod. “You’re absolutely right.” He leaned forward, giving John a smile that was far from innocent. “Perhaps there’s something I could do—something I could help you with—to make up for my rude behaviour.”

The little human mouth, which sported not quite human teeth, opened and closed several times before John cleared his throat and managed, “Well! That’s quite the offer. But you’re not fooling anyone with that act.”

“What act?”

“Pretending to be interested just to conduct your little experiment.”

Sherlock sat up and scowled. “I don’t see why it should be problematic. We both gain from the experience.”

“You scratch the itch on your brain, and I feel used. Yes, quite the gain.”

“I wonder,” Sherlock mused, as if he had entirely missed the comment. “We’ve been chatting for quite some time, and yet you remain fully erect.”

John immediately turned his face away and scratched his head with a little clawed hand. “Yes, well, that’s, er, a bit of an embarrassing story.”

“I’ve been looking at your penis for several minutes,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Don’t remind me,” John groaned. He toppled back onto his rear and folded his wings over his lap. “You see, I do share traits with the common order Chiroptera.”

“Obviously.”

John glowered up at Sherlock. “Not so very visible traits.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” John murmured, shuffling his wings, “such as certain... biochemical responses.”

“Elaborate.”

John let out an exasperated sigh and hung his head back. “It’s mating season for the average Chiroptera and I flew a little too close to a colony of actual _Plecotus auritus_.”

Sherlock’s mouth broke into a wide, unabashed grin. “You were aroused by their mating, and the onslaught of hormones is still affecting your body?”

“Yes,” John grumbled.

“Are you having difficulty diffusing the situation?”

“No!” he squeaked. “Why are you so obsessed with getting me off?”

“I’m a scientist, and you’re an oddity of nature.”

“Rude,” John muttered.

“Let me help.”

John glared sidelong at Sherlock, but his expression gradually, though minutely, changed. “On one condition.”

Sherlock brightened immediately. “Yes?”

“After you’re done, I get to experiment on you.”

“What?” Sherlock laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“And why not?”

“For one, my penis is as big as you are—when it’s flaccid.”

“Size is not everything,” John sniffed.

“Are you implying that that’s small among your kind?” Sherlock pointed at the none too subtle bump under John’s wings.

“That is hardly your business!”

“Very well,” Sherlock sighed. He held his finger forward. “Deal. At the very least, it will be amusing to see you try.”

John gave him a scathing look as he clasped the finger in one clawed hand and shook it. Then he fell flat on his back with a great huff. “I’m sorry, but I’m quite dizzy. It’s been exhausting talking to you while upright. How do you manage?”

“In addition to your current physical state, the vascular system of a bat compared to that of a human—”

“Rhetorical,” John snorted. “Get on with it then. Do be careful, though.”

“A scientist is always careful.”

For a moment, Sherlock simply studied the opportunity at hand. Even if this was a dream, it was a delightfully unique one with a marvellous level of the unexpected. But his senses and perception suggested that, despite the peculiar nature of the situation, it was quite real.

John cleared his throat pointedly.

Sherlock scooped John into his hands, causing the small half-bat, half-man to squeak. He turned him carefully in his open palm so that John’s head rested on the heel of hand. He titled his hand so John’s lower half was raised and applied his tongue very lightly to the small erect penis. It certainly felt like a human penis, texturally speaking.

The small action elicited further squeaks as well as little mews as a pair of tiny clawed hands scrabbled for purchase on the underside of Sherlock’s chin.

After a brief consideration, Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue against the prick and rolled his tongue around it.

The noises John was making rapidly spiralled into a frequency too high for Sherlock to hear, which answered his earlier question about sonar.

He wriggled ferociously in Sherlock’s hand—or what Sherlock mistook for wriggling at first. Then he realised John was thrusting into the hollow Sherlock had created with his tongue. Sherlock did his best to tighten his tongue, but otherwise he let the little man-bat... well, ultimately Sherlock was letting John fuck himself inside his curled tongue, wasn’t he?

Suddenly John pushed at Sherlock’s chin, and that was a signal Sherlock could read even in this creature. Not a second later, he found his chin dripping with ejaculate.

Sherlock wiped it away with his other hand as John went limp in his upturned palm. His dark-furred chest laboured as he gulped breath after breath. Sherlock watched—still fascinated, not at all bored—as the very human-like penis gradually went flaccid before his eyes. When it had shrunk entirely, it was small enough to be very neatly hidden beneath John’s fur.

John saw to exactly that. “Well,” he huffed. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome.” He deposited John gently onto the stone.

“Where do you think you’re going?” John flapped up to Sherlock’s shoulder as he stood.

“The rain’s lightened, and I do have work to be getting back to.”

John crossed his arms, and lacked the air of embarrassment from earlier. He glowered at Sherlock.

The look had more of an effect on Sherlock than he would care to admit. He raised a single brow in a silent question.

“We had an agreement.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You were sincere in that offer?”

“I prefer to keep my agreements,” John said. He jumped off Sherlock’s shoulder and flapped down to his trousers, where he latched onto belt loops and fabric and began fiddling with Sherlock’s zip.

Sherlock decided to help him out and undid his trousers. John gave him an annoyed look before ducking his head into the open flap and climbing his way into the hole of Sherlock’s black boxer briefs.

It was extremely peculiar to have a little creature wriggling inside his pants.

Despite the little clawed hands and feet, John moved carefully and nimbly around the dark interior until he was positioned to his liking on Sherlock’s prick. What this entailed was his furred little body tickling Sherlock’s flaccid penis, upside-down with his face level with the head.

Then, a very small, very wet, very agile tongue swept across the line where his foreskin stopped, prodding just below the line, and Sherlock found himself unexpectedly shivering at the sensation.

Sherlock had never been particularly ticklish, and at the moment he was trying to decide if that was a pro or con. As John alternated between licking and sucking at patches of flesh, he shimmied his furry body up and down Sherlock’s cock as it unarguably firmed and lengthened.

It shouldn’t be that unexpected that his body was aroused. He was being physically stimulated, if in an unusual way. It’s not as if Sherlock had never tried unusual things with sex before.

He was getting quite tight in his pants, and no doubt it was becoming uncomfortable for John as well. Sherlock opened his trousers wider and pulled on the waistband of his pants, drawing it carefully over John and his prick and settling the elastic at the base of his shaft.

John broke away long enough to say breathily, “Much better.” Then his little mouth went back to licking and sucking and his knees and elbows squeezed tighter around Sherlock.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he bit the inside of his lip. He watched with increasingly wider eyes, pupils blown, as the little creature—no, person—worked away at his dick as it grew to its full length and girth.

At the first drop of pre-ejaculate, without the slightest hesitation, John gave the slit of Sherlock’s cock a long, slow lick.

Sherlock finally wondered if he should sit down or lean against something in the same moment he realised that would be disruptive at this point. He had not expected John to be quite this successful, but all he could do was hope his legs would hold him up through climax.

Without warning, John loosened his grip enough to swing to the underside of the shaft. His tongue and lips began working furiously at the glans and he squeezed his body tight around Sherlock’s cock, going so far as to wrap his wings about it entirely.

Sherlock gasped as his body sparked. He really did wish he had something to lean on or at least hold at that moment. His fists clenched uselessly at his sides and he barely managed to gasp, “John!” Thankfully, it was enough of a warning.

John ducked his head just before Sherlock came. He didn’t let go, though. In fact, he squeezed harder through Sherlock’s orgasm.

Sherlock had no hope of remaining on his feet after that. He lowered himself clumsily to the ground, leaning the low of his back against the stone, legs sprawled in front of him. He was still able to register, with surprise, when John gave a few licks to the sensitive head before releasing him and flapping up to his shirt collar, where he latched on upside-down.

“Impressive,” Sherlock panted. “I would not have expected you to be so capable.”

“In general, or with a prick the size of my body?”

“Larger than, once erect.”

John gave an exasperated sigh.

“The latter, of course. I have no knowledge of your kind’s sex habits.”

“Not unlike yours I would imagine.”

A silence spread—not between them, but over them like a warm blanket. It was certainly the most bizarre post-coital haze Sherlock had ever experienced, not that his mind ever remained in much of a haze for long. “I ought to be going. It’s going to be hell finding that bastard now, thanks to you.”

“I wasn’t the one who started this whole thing, if you recall. And what bastard?”

“A murder suspect,” he responded as he pulled his pants back up and began doing up his trousers. “Well, I say suspect. Only the bloody idiots in the police force are still calling him a suspect. It’s obvious he’s the culprit.”

“Detective, are you?”

“Consulting detective.” He stood, watching from the corner of his eyes as John swung unperturbed from his shirt collar.

“Consulting?”

“The police come to me when they find themselves out of their depth. In other words, far too often.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“And what do you do? Do you have a profession?”

“I was something of a soldier. Defended territory and the like.”

“‘Was’?”

John extended his left wing fully. Hidden in the creases of flesh was a pale scar.

“Puncture wound. Raptor?”

“Perceptive.”

“Observant.”

John folded his wing again. “I can fly well enough for my own good, but I’m not as agile as I once was, and changes in weather make it ache horribly.”

Sherlock quickly reviewed and filed away these new facts before posing another question, “Were you exiled from your colony?”

“Goodness,” John grumbled. “You really have no manners, do you? No, I was not kicked out. Life’s quite dull for me these days, though.”

“So you wander off on your own a lot.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock smoothed his shirt front and pulled up the collar of his coat. “Ever been to London, John?”

“No, why?”

“I imagine it would be far from dull for someone like you. It certainly continues to intrigue me, and that, I promise you, is not an easy accomplishment.”

“Get bored often, do you?”

“More than you know.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll visit some day.”

“Any family?”

“So many personal questions!” John huffed, still swinging lazily from the shirt collar.

“Yes, at least one family member, but no one you get on with.”

“How—”

“Quite obvious from your response. Well then, John. Fancy a trip to London?”

John stopped swinging and climbed up to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I thought you had a criminal to catch.”

“Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. Then it’s back to London.”

 

John sat abruptly on Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes glazing momentarily. “London... Really?”

“I’ve got quite a spacious flat in central London. Not that, I imagine, you would need much room.”

After a second, John’s eyes narrowed up at Sherlock. “Is this so you can keep experimenting on me?”

Sherlock met his gaze unwaveringly. “Will ‘yes’ be an acceptable answer if I let you continue your experiments on me?”

John’s grim expression cracked into quite the robust laughter for someone so small. “Very well, then. You know, though, I never did catch your name. I suppose that’s quite rude of me, considering.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well then, Mr. Holmes—”

“I think Sherlock is more than acceptable, considering.”

John grinned. “Well then, Sherlock, London it is.”

“But first.”

“Yes, first your criminal.”

“Might want to hold on to something, or get in my pocket. I’m about to start running.”

John stood and flexed his wings. “I may not be as agile as I once was, but I think I can keep up with a human.”

He took off from Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock dove back into the rain. It had lightened considerably during his time in the cave, and he had renewed hope that he could find this murderer after all. He glanced back once, and sure enough John was flying right behind him.


End file.
